


The Many Oddities Of Mr. Sims

by SurrealSupernaturalist



Series: The Scottish Safehouse Anthology [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Academia Sucks, Horror, Hypersomnia, I can now remove the fact that jonmartin isnt explicitly stated from the tags, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, POV Outsider, Post-MAG160, Scars, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Statement Hunger (The Magnus Archives), Tape Recorders - Freeform, Teacher Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, The Dark Fear Entity (The Magnus Archives), The Slaughter Fear Entity (The Magnus Archives), ambiguous timeline, and add the man to the character list like he deserves, and jon is inherrently an academic, but way more lite this time, wow jon do be weird tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:34:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28107099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SurrealSupernaturalist/pseuds/SurrealSupernaturalist
Summary: We all have those high school stories. The time someone climbed on top of the lockers at lunch break. The time teachers thought you and your friends were gambling, but you were just trying to order pizza. The time it was bucketing down with rain, and you were getting wet anyway so you went fuck it, and ended up walking into the computer lab soaking wet.The time you had a teacher that can command the attention of any student no matter how unruly, a teacher with scars and a teacher who never ate lunch with the rest of the faculty.--------------------------------------------------------OR: Mr. Sims is a strange teacher.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: The Scottish Safehouse Anthology [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1970932
Comments: 142
Kudos: 352
Collections: Dodo’s Archive





	1. aversion to tape recorders

**Author's Note:**

> full disclosure that first summary paragraph are some of my actual high school experiences
> 
> so remember when i wrote about spooky mugs? and i only vaguely hinted at teacher jon sims? yeah 
> 
> i DO recommend reading the pervious fic in this series first, so you know what the hell is going on with this friend group.

Dian has always had trouble with sleeping. Not getting to sleep, no, but staying awake.

A ghost of a memory tingles at the back of her mind, of a shadow and an imaginary friend. An old house means old ghosts, her ancestral home filled with things that Dian has never been able to explain. But she has never been touched by them, hurt by them. Within the walls of her home, she is safe, and she was never much afraid of the dark.

They stopped bothering her, once that became clear. And, well, her cousin was always more afraid than she ever was.

Unfortunately, however, her sleep suffered for it.

Hypersomnia, the doctors called it. Excessive sleep, having trouble staying awake during the day, falling asleep without warning. Her life—her grades, especially—took a hit, and as she fell into the rigorous routine of high school, she took to recording.

Her phone is filled with recordings of classes, her desk filled with photocopies of her friends notes. And when she can’t hit record in time, her friends are there to do it for her, accommodating her in every way possible. 

When Ko started collecting those strange, inexplicable mugs—mugs for tea,  _ her  _ tea,  _ her  _ ordinary collection of tea from all over the world, but she refuses to think about that—things began to change. Her audio files corrupted. Not all the time, no, but only when they were nearby. Never often enough for their supplementary notes to not make up for it, either. And when their follower turned up, when it started hopping around and listened and brought her coffee and they got so,  _ so  _ attached through the grief and loneliness it brought, Dian began to get used to it. Static and jarring silences and glitched screens. Audio doesn’t mix well with weird, it seems. 

So, as she has been doing for many years now, she adjusted.

Until  _ this class. _

After exams last year had been and gone, when the school year was winding down and people were discussing holiday plans, it was announced. An elective class for students in their final year of school, revolving around ‘Paranormal Sciences’. 

That sent the student population into a  _ frenzy _ . When it comes to official education, study of the paranormal was usually kept to universities, with only the rare exception due to a lack of teachers for the subject (or so Dian assumed). It appeared that this would be one of those exceptions. 

Mr. Sims walks into class on the first day of term in a long plaid skirt, a white collar shirt, and a very comfy-looking dark green knitted cardigan. He lays down, in no uncertain terms, his expectations of the class and what the class should expect of him. He makes it abundantly clear that his will not be a class for easy grades, nor for the squeamish, nor for the vaguely interested. He encourages those who feel like they won’t enjoy the class to transfer out as soon as possible.

A week later sees six students in a too-large classroom, beginning their first unit. Parapsychology, the study of unorthodox mental phenomena, sounds particularly interesting to Dian, considering her affliction. The doctors insisted it was normal, but she remembered the lurking shadows, and she knew it wasn’t as certain as she knew she breathed.

And every. Single. Class. Will  _ not _ record.

Mr. Sims’ voice cackles with static, overlaid and overlaid and overlaid upon it. Ko’s phone yields the same results, as does Kit’s. It was just cracking, ear-piercing static. Every time.

She isn’t stupid. Dian and Kit and Ko, they all know what that means. But, well, they’re here to study the paranormal. Interference is to be expected, they reason. 

So they shrug, and move on with their lives. They’re good at doing that, now. 

Dian has a hard time chasing it out of her mind, though. The static is  _ insane _ , and even the worst of Ko’s collection never generates so much. 

A month goes by like that. They give up on recording Mr. Sims, and when she succumbs to exhaustion, her friends take down as much as they can.

She doesn’t deserve them, if she’s being honest.

Their solution comes in the form of Kit, and an ancient tape recorder he dug up from a dusty old box in a dusty old attic. He theorized that if digital wouldn’t work, then maybe analogue would. It’s worth a shot, she reasons.

The next day, she sits down in her usual spot by the window, Ko beside her and Kit beside Ko, and sets up the tape recorder. Ko nudges her in the side, jerking her head towards the front of the class. Mr. Sims is staring intently at the tape recorder, a look of grim resignation on his face. The bell rings, and Dian hits record. And she promptly passes out on the desk.

Ko later tells her, between wheezing laughs, that Mr. Sims had the most  _ sour _ face.

It works though. No static, no glitching, no refusing to record. Analogue appears to record the class just fine, and Dian brings it to the next one. 

She catches Mr. Sims staring at it again, and they make eye contact. Her confusion must have been obvious, because he coughs lightly and goes back to what he was doing, clearly a little flustered. Which is. Hm. Odd.

Dian actually manages to stay awake this time, which she is ever thankful for, but she can feel the exhaustion creeping up the edges of her conciousness. As she’s packing up, Mr. Sims walks over, lips pinched and looking for all the world like a lost puppy. It’s an amusing thought.

“Miss Cooper, would you mind staying behind for a few minutes?” He asks, and Dian can tell he’s desperate to maintain professionalism. She blinks, and nods, and fights off the oncoming tides of sleep. Ko glances at her worriedly.

“We’ll wait at the door, yeah?” Kit offers. Dian is thankful for her friends.

A mug sits at the windowsill, small and innocuous, and Mr. Sims doesn’t seem to notice.

“I’m not in trouble, am I?” Her teacher shakes his head, adamant. 

“No, no, I was just. Wondering. About the tape recorder?”

“Oh. Right. I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, but I record my classes?” Dian begins to explain. “There’s no guarantee that I’ll stay awake through the whole thing, so recording it means I have a copy to go back to. But, well, digital doesn’t seem to cut it, here? It’s probably because of the subject matter, to be honest, but I don’t want to  _ fail _ , so. Tape recorder.”

It’s a little more explanation than she intended to give, but she’s not complaining.

Mr. Sims seems lost for words for a moment. He just. Stares.

“Y-yes.” He says at last. “Because of your hypersomnia, yes?” She nods. He hesitates for a moment longer, and Dian marvels at perhaps the first time she’s seen her teacher even remotely uncomfortable. He’s a master of the classroom, and despite the chaos that they tend to sow, continues to maintain control of the room.

When he speaks, he sounds as if he’s fighting to keep something out of his voice. It sounds a little warped, like it’s recorded audio, but she dismisses it as a symptom of her oncoming exhaustion. “Out of curiosity, Miss Cooper. What… what happens when you try to record me digitally?”

There’s something odd about his phrasing. Dian can’t place it.

“Static.” She says simply. “Just. A  _ lot _ of static.”

Mr. Sims hums, a faraway look in his eyes.

“Look, if the tape recorder’s a problem, I can—”   
  


“No! No, it’s not that.” He hurriedly assures her, hands waving. He looks terribly flustered, but it’s not like tape recorders are in your average student’s stationary. This is uncharted territory. “It’s— it doesn’t matter. If it helps your study, then there’s no problem. I, uh. If it helps, I can give you my teaching notes? I know I’m prone to rambling,  _ as Martin keeps telling me _ , but it. Might help?”

There was a bit there muttered too lowly for Dian to pick up, but she decides that is none of her business. As for the notes… 

“Uh, yeah! That would be a big help, thanks!” And it would take some pressure off Ko and Kit, too. Win-win.

Mr. Sims smiles, and it’s a gentle thing. 


	2. Penchant for stern professionalism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -yeets this into the void of the internet- is the pacing too fast? It feels like it’s too fast.

“Good morning.” The man says. 

The class gives a half-hearted reply, mostly drowsy from this being the first class of the day, even if it is the second day of term now. He frowns behind grandmother glasses, and begins to scrawl on the blackboard behind him.

“My name is Jonathan Sims,” he underlines the last name, “my pronouns are he/him, and I will be your teacher for this class.”

Paranormal Sciences.

Mr. Sims.

Wears cool skirts.

Got it.

He faces the class once again.

“Why are you here?” He asks, folding his arms and surveying the class with a strangely keen eye. “Really think about it. What drove you to my classroom? What made you choose this subject, out of all your options?” He squints suspiciously at certain people, people who sink into their seats, who grimace and shrug as he speaks. 

He continues. “Are you a believer of the supernatural? A skeptic? Are you here for the grades, or for the knowledge? Did your friends talk you into taking it, maybe on a dare, maybe just to try it.”

Those grimaces turn into guilty looks before her eyes. She sits up a little straighter.

“Whatever your reason for being here, I suggest thinking long and hard about it. Because whether you like it or not, the study of the esoteric and strange is a deeply academic subject. It is not easy. It is not simple. It is—”

“A high school level course?” Someone asks hopefully. 

Mr. Sims squints hard at him. His glasses slip down his nose slightly, and he pushes them back up.

“A university-level course that happens to be in a highschool, because no-one saw fit to adapt it for  _ children _ .” Mock gasps ring out across the classroom, and a hint of a wry smile graces his face.

“This is a difficult class. I’ve adjusted this course as much as I could to account for the stressors of high school, but the fact of the matter remains that I will expect you to work hard to pass this class. There are no easy grades here. If you do not think this class is for you, even in the slightest, then I would suggest transferring into a different class. That and, well,” he gives a little chuckle, “this is Paranormal Studies. This isn’t exactly the most PG subject. If you have any issues with blood, or,” a vague handwave, “you get the idea, or if you get squeamish at all, then the same applies.”

His face softens, almost imperceptibly, and the stiffness in his thin frame seeps away a little. “But nonetheless. If you do choose to stay with this class, then I will do the best I can to support you. Know that you can come to me if you have any questions, or if you need any help.”

By the time the second week rolled around, only six were left. Herself included. And in the time since, Zuri has discovered that Mr. Sims is a… uniquely professional man.

His entrance certainly burned its way into the memory of the student body, and even those who weren’t there had heard about the intense Mr. Sims by the second day. If the announcement of the new class had caused a stir, then this was a tidal wave. 

Every student in the school wanted to know who the mysterious new teacher was. Zuri would catch them staring in the hall as he shuffles past, the poor man attracting the curious eye of nearly every student in the school not already exposed to him. 

In the week before it was only the six of them, students who were never even part of this class in the first place would sneak in to see what all the fuss was about, and Mr. Sims would pretend not to notice. She saw the way he hummed to himself at the sight of them, and she saw how he swallowed the words.

Whispers trail behind him like airstreams and the gossip spread like wildfire until the whole school knows who he is. 

And Mr. Sims. He always seems unbothered. Used to it, almost, and respectfully never comments. 

But Zuri cocks her head and squints at her new teacher, and tries to puzzle him out.

He’s stiff. Formal. Insists on calling all the students by their surname, even if he’s never met them before.

He doesn’t laugh, barely smiles.

It’s obvious that he wants to maintain a professional distance. And, well, she can respect that. Friendly, but not personally so. 

But there’s always a hint of one, a suspended moment where Zuri thinks that this, this might be where he finally loosens up. 

She didn’t notice it at first, too absorbed with actually learning—

(“Consume-book-syndrome.” Alex says, hanging upside-down off the side of her bed. Zuri shoves them off and they hit the floor with a loud thud and an even louder yelp.

“There’s nothing wrong with excessive reading.” She replies primly. “How else are we supposed to destroy the government with the tools they gave us?”

“ _ Hey— _ ”)

—but that was before she had a genuine chat with him after class. Before she saw him really,  _ truly  _ smile.

She just wanted to know why there was an irregularity between the sources he was giving them. A simple question. She was not expecting the ensuing rant about academic credibility, faking results for  _ academic street cred _ (which Zuri is both delighted and horrified to know is a thing), and how study of the paranormal is so often laughed off. 

“—and that doesn’t even  _ begin  _ to cover the countless records lost because people didn’t care enough to file them properly, or even file them at all, so that messes with people trying to cite their work, or even do some decent research, which just,  _ exacerbates  _ the problem even further—”

Zuri should be taking notes. 

Incredible, sir, please continue.

“—don’t even get me  _ started  _ on the elitism. Between regular academia and the Magnus Institute’s two-hundred-year-old grip on the subject, Paranormal Sciences is one of  _ the snobbiest  _ fields you could  _ possibly  _ study in, and— and…”

Mr. Sims abruptly comes back to himself and stares wide-eyed at Zuri. She stares back, absolutely fascinated. 

“Um.”

Then he just, sighs, and digs his fingers into his eyes, pushing up his glasses, and then. Stands like that. For a long moment. As if he can somehow erase the fact that he ranted about the horrors of academia for a solid fifteen minutes.

“Did I  _ really  _ just—”

“—yep. Don’t stop on my account, sir.”

Mr. Sims just sighs even deeper. Zuri frowns at her twink of a teacher.

“I’m serious, Mr. Sims. That was all really interesting to know.”

He does his damnedest to recollect and squints at her. “You’re interested in academia?”

Yessir.

“Even with all the bias and discrimination?”

Zuri raises her chin.

“Especially with all that. I’m a woman of colour, Mr. Sims, and I will not be shoved aside. I want to learn everything I can get my hands on.”

He’s taut, but there’s a softness to his voice that speaks volumes, even if he doesn’t.

And he smiles. Small, hesitant, and a little broken, but holding a gentleness in the curve that spoke of hope. 

“Then good luck to you. And, ah, if you ever want help, or advice, then… yeah. You can come to me.”

Zuri grins, wide and toothy and genuine. “That includes listening to you rant, Mr. Sims.”

“Oh. I, uh. Thank you? I—”

“And I really like your skirt, sir, where’d you get it?”

“UH.”

Suddenly that professional distance becomes social awkwardness, and Zuri thinks with a bit of a laugh,  _ oh no. _

_ She likes this one. _

“...would you like to learn about emulsifiers?” He asks quietly after a long moment. 

GOD, yes, is that even a question???

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zuri is what I like to call punk academia and its basically learning all there is to know about science and politics so she can use it against the government and old people who tell her that she knows nothing. Shes a tiny ball of sweater and spite and will not be silenced.
> 
> but seriously tho with how short these chapters are (completely intentional) it feels like my pacing is really wack whenever I reread. am I going too fast?


	3. A multitude of scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did i give the slaughter avatar in training the same last name as daredevil? You bet your spookiest mug i did

“Mr. Murdock.”

Duke looks behind him.

“Mr. Sims.”

His teacher is frowning. Not exactly a new look, but given the groaning bodies around him and the blood on his freshly-split knuckles, it might be a _little_ warranted.

Duke looks at his fellow students. Nearly comatose on the concrete of the school yard. Their faces and the ground were smeared with blood, both theirs and his. 

His knuckles sting. 

“What are you doing?”

Defending her. Defending himself.

“What’s it look like, Mr. Sims.” He drawls. The frown deepens. Duke tips his head back to the sky and closes his eyes to the light drizzle. 

The other teachers are used to this. The other teachers have dealt with this.

What are you gonna do?

“It looks like you’re giving them scars.” Is what his teacher says.

_Their_ scars? What about _his_ scars? _His_ open wounds that haven’t had the _chance_ to become scars?

“They’ll heal.”

“It’s not their faces I’m worried about.” His voice laced with heavy disapproval, and a hint of concern. But no anger. None of the fury he’s expected from his teachers.

What kind of teacher are you, Mr. Sims?

There’s a long moment before his teacher speaks. 

“Help me get them to the sick bay.”

Hm. 

That’s a new one.

That one sentence carries him over to the next day, where Duke lounges at the back of the room and doodles little patterns of splatters in his notebook. The movements stretch and pull at the new scabs decorating his hands like patches on a jean jacket, the faint crisscrossing lines of old and new scars like seams, torn open and restitched one at a time.

For the first time in a long while he stops and looks at them. He flexes his fingers to feel how they pull and see how they move.

And then he looks up across the room at Mr. Sims.

_“It looks like you’re giving them scars.”_

At the pockmarks embedded in dark skin.

_“It’s not their faces I’m worried about.”_

At the lattice of burnt flesh that pulls as he writes on the blackboard.

_“Help me get them to the sick bay.”_

At the jagged thing across his shallow throat.

Strangely enough, Duke is proud of his scars. Each and every one of them. While they might not all be happy ones, each tells its own story, its own proclamation to the world that Duke is still alive, that he’s still kicking and breathing and fighting. 

Despite the anger, despite the roaring in his ears that demands blood, he is still here. And he was victorious.

Mr. Sims doesn’t seem proud of his scars. He tugs his sleeves over his hands, adjusts his collar to obscure his Adam's apple. It makes him wonder what the stories behind them are.

He raises his hand.

This catches some attention. Only some. Only a teeny tiny bit.

The entire class stares at him in open surprise and curiosity. Duke clenches his teeth and straightens his arm just a bit more. Mr. Sims raises his eyebrows behind his glasses and gestures for him to speak.

“What’s with the scars?” He drawls. Those eyebrows inch up even higher before the classroom is thrown into chaos.

“Wait, we can _ask_ that—?”

“Oh thank god I don’t have to ask—”

“Holy shit he _talks—_ ”

“—owe me 5 pounds, Ko-ko. Pay up!”

“UGH.”

“Okay, no, back up. _Can_ we ask?”

“Depends.” Their teacher eyes Duke in particular, and the attention makes him sit up a little straighter. “What do you want to know?”

He sounds hesitant. And more than a little weary.

_How did you get them?_

“What are their stories?” Is what he ends up saying. Wait. No. Abort. That’s _not_ what he wanted to say.

“Stories?” 

“How you got them. The emotional connection. What you felt.”

What? No. Stop. _Stop_.

He has anger and pride and justice. That doesn’t mean that his teacher is the same.

Mr. Sims blinks and suddenly Duke feels like he can breathe again. 

“ _Well_ ,” he breathes, and Duke thinks his hands are shaking, “Which ones would you like to know about?”

Silence.

“Ah, Mr. Sims?” Kit says gently. “You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to.”

Everyone else nods vigorously. Duke sinks back down in his chair and stares at his doodles. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his teacher shrug.

“It’s the least I can do.”

What.

What???

“Which ones would you like to know about?”

Zuri is the one to raise her hand first, albeit hesitantly. “Are you _sure_ .” He nods. The students exchange looks. “I, well, I think the obvious first question is the pockmarks, sir. _How?_ ”

“Ah.” Mr. Sims nods sagely. “Worms.” 

W. Worms?

He sees Zuri mouth the word, clearly as dumbstruck as he is.

“Wait. No. Wait. _What_ kind of worms?” She persists. “Worms don’t eat people.”

Mr. Sims looks at the blackboard, where the name of the class is scrawled right at the top and underlined several times. He looks back at the class with raised eyebrows.

“I. No. You did _not_ get eaten by spooky worms.” Zuri insists.

“ _Holy shit you got eaten by spooky worms_.” Alex whispers in awe, the complete opposite of their friend.

Mr. Sims just shrugs.

“What about the one on your hand?” Ko asks enthusiastically, leaning forward on her desk. “Was your tea too hot?” She teases. Their teacher narrows his eyes at her.

“No, but boiling wax is.”

“What.”

“ _Please_ tell me you went to a hospital.” Zuri begs.

“Ehhhhh define ‘hospital’.”

“SIR.”

“I feel like there’s a story there.” Kit muses, tapping his pen against his notebook. “Not whatever Duke was saying, but an actual story.”

OI.

“I’ll… get to it.” Mr. Sims says, shifting a little on his feet. “Eventually.”

“ _Eventually_.” The entire class echoes skeptically. He glares at them all.

“The one on your other hand?”

“Incident with a bread knife.”

Lies. Bread knives don’t cut like that.

“The one that looks like someone tried to cut your throat?”

“Someone tried to cut my throat.”

UM.

SIR. ARE YOU OKAY.

“That weird slight limp you have?”

“What weird— oh. C4.”

Alex narrows their eyes.

“How much C4.”

“Um. Yes.”

Chaos. Despair. Head meet desks at the entire class wonders how the fuck their teacher is still alive.

Mr. Sims has the audacity to chuckle at their antics.

“Now, if you don’t mind?” He gestures to the blackboard to continue with the class. Several groans rise to meet him. Mr. Sims huffs a half-laugh. “Very well. Now where was I…?”

Zuri raises a hand. “‘Ghost’ as scientific terminology.”

“Ah, yes.” Their teacher purses his lips. “You know, I wouldn’t have a problem with it if it wasn’t so _vague—_ ”

And so the lesson progresses, and Duke is left to muse.

Firstly, it’s evident that there is a tragic backstory to unlock. He decides to leave that to the more nosy members of his class (he resolutely ignores the part of him that reminds him he was the one to ask about the scars in the first place).

But Mr. Sims has pain in his scars. Well, granted, Duke does too, but his is the pain of others.

His teacher is hurting.

So when the bell tolls and the others leave for the next class, Duke lingers at the door, thumb absentmindedly running over the pages of his sketchbook. Mr. Sims glances at him over his grandmother glasses. And he waits.

“...Sorry.” He says after a long moment. His teacher blinks.

“I— what?” 

“They don’t mean the same thing for you.” Duke explains, not meeting his eyes. “So I wanted to know what they _do_ mean. So. Sorry.”

Mr. Sims looks absolutely baffled for a long moment. 

“Mr. Murdock, if anything, _I_ should be the one apologizing—”

Duke shakes his head.

“Your scars.” He says. “Your stories.”

His teacher looks at him for a long moment; not the pinning stare from earlier, but a proper consideration.

“Maybe stop trying to, erm, _earn_ more stories, then?” He suggests hesitantly.

Ha.

Nah.

He’s got blood in his ears and pain in his fists. It’s all the story he needs.

“No promises.” Duke says, baring teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mr sims has very little sense of personal boundaries after they were violently and utterly stripped away while working at the magnus institute. its no wonder he fell back on old habits when he started at this unnamed school, and now hes bounced back to being almost completely apathetic about his scars, both physical and mental. 
> 
> key word almost
> 
> I should probably address this at some point.


	4. Strange lunch habits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote a piece for the rusty quill writing competition and i am vehemently not thinking about it now that I've submitted it. take this chapter instead.

Kit doesn’t care what anyone says, hipster cafes with bookshelves are where it’s at. They have a vibe. A certain je ne sais quoi. The ability to curl up at one of the window booths with a mug of tea in one hand and a book in the other, or browse the wide array of novels and anthologies and textbooks that line the shelves at the back of the store.

His friends say he’s biased, because this one pays him.

Mmmmmmmm no, that’s not it. 

No, this is the place he fell in love with writing. It’s where he’d escape to in the hours between school and sunset, with the afternoon sun streaming in through the windows and the smell of coffee beans and paper permeating the air. It was here that lived worlds he found and explored and lived, that lived the prose that flowed like an ocean of language and thoughts and he told himself  _ yes _ . 

He wanted to make this. He wanted to make a world you can get lost in.

It was a place of dust motes and magic and afternoon sun in his youth. Now it’s largely the same, but if ‘magic’ was replaced with ‘customer entitlement’.

Retail, man.

Right now, though, the place is largely empty, and Kit is tasked with restocking the bookshelf with new content. He thumbs through the titles as he goes, seeing what he recognises, what he’s read before, and what looks interesting. 

Most of it are donations. Some old textbooks, which Kit and other students are eternally grateful for. A few old classics with yellowed pages worn from many thumbs running over the edges. One, two, three… four? Seven?

Kit blinks down at the little pile he’s made.

There is… a lot of poetry in this lot. Huh.

Actually…

He glances behind him at one of the regulars, tucked into a corner booth with a notebook and a thick hardcover anthology.

This man in particular has been coming to their little corner place for about a month and a half now, every Saturday afternoon, trying something different from the menu each time. Then he takes his order and does what Kit used to do almost every day after school, and plucks a book off the shelf to consume for the entire afternoon. Sometimes, he even pulls out a little notebook and scribbles in it.

Kit can’t help but notice him drift towards the poetry anthologies. Don’t get him wrong, he enjoys the stuff, but he’s always been jealous of people who write it. He thinks that this man does, judging by the way his brow furrows and he firmly crosses out lines, or mumbles under his breath too quietly to hear, or chews on the end of his pen.

The next weekend, Kit is far from surprised to see the large man enter the store and deliberate over the menu for a few minutes.

Kit gives a friendly smile and the man responds in kind as he lists off his order, to which Kit dutifully fulfills. As he passes over the order, though, he adds, “We also recently restocked the bookshelf, if you’re interested.”

He hums, eyes bright in curiosity. “Any recommendations?”

Maybe so!

“ _ Well _ . There’s a really cool collection of Sappho, there, plus some Dickinson, Poe, Dunbar, Carroll, Hayden—” The man laughs, cutting off his list.

“Yes yes, I get your point. Lots of poetry. Hey, aren’t you—” His phone goes off abruptly, and he looks alarmed as he sees the caller. There’s panic in his eyes as he glances at the order on the counter and then Kit. “Okay, I’m so sorry, but can you—”

“—make it to go? Can do.”

The regular looks grateful and he shuffles out to answer the phone. Kit can hear the distinct lilt of worry coating his words.

He bags the pastry and transfers the drink into a travel mug, and when the customer returns he looks harried. 

“I am,  _ so  _ sorry, it’s just my boyfriend, and he— I really need to go, I’m  _ sorry— _ ”

Kit cuts him off with a genuine smile and pushes his order towards him. “It’s fine, really. Hope he’s okay.”

A relieved expression crosses his face as he takes it. “Thank you, really, I—”

“ _ Go _ .” Kit emphasises with a laugh.

The bell chimes as he leaves.

It’s honestly not the weirdest thing he’s witnessed while working there. There’s one regular who always comes in at 6 AM with bags under her eyes and orders six shots of espresso, and then comes in in the evening for a cup of tea and a collapse in the corner. There’s also the man with the duck suit. This is nothing.

Honestly, he’s more worried about the haggard look on Mr. Sim’s face when class starts on Monday, the gaunt cheeks and  hungry tired eyes. Maybe he should talk to someone about it? Has he eaten? Have the other teachers noticed?

Wait. Hang on. 

When was the last time his teacher had lunch in the staff room? Does he just. Curl up at his desk and read?

Actually, now that he thinks about it, has he ever seen the guy even  _ talk  _ to the other teachers?

He furrows his brow and it makes Ko and Dian concerned. He fends off their hands trying to smooth out his forehead, the tyrants. How dare they use platonic affection against him.

This, at least, still plagues him when the regular turns up at the classroom out of the blue that very day.

Kit sees him when everyone else does, when his teacher trails off and glances at the door with wide eyes, when he and his classmates unconsciously follow his gaze before snapping out of whatever reverie they got dragged into. It’s not uncommon in this classroom, when Mr. Sims is speaking. 

“Martin.” Mr. Sims says it like he’s surprised, but then his brows drop into a look of understanding. “Oh. Yes, right, of course.” He glances once at his class before striding curtly to the door.

“Oh my god.” Alex stage-whispers. “Is he, someone pinch me,  _ smiling _ ?” 

“Our Mr. Sims?  _ Impossible _ .” Dian teases back, stretching back in her chair. Her back pops.

“You forgot your lunch.” The regular—Martin?—tells their teacher, pretending not to hear them but having to bite his lip to stifle a laugh.

Lunch. Hm. 

Then what’s with that disguised worry, hmmmm?

Alex gasps, loud, obvious, and dramatic, clutching their chest like it’s a string of pearls. “His  _ lunch _ ! Mr. Sims, I can’t believe you’d be so irresponsible! Duke, can you believe it?” 

“Don’t talk to me.”

“He can’t believe it either!”

“Yes, yes, I get the point.” Mr. Sims’ pointed glare just sends them into fits of giggles, and even the usually stoic Duke twitches his mouth into what could pass for a smile. He frowns at them all for a moment longer before turning back to Martin, and Kit can see the way his face softens into something fond. Gentle. “Thank you, Martin.”

Ko, Dian, and Alex nearly collapse into wheezing laughter, because Mr. Sims says that in an absurdly professional tone, and  _ still  _ fails to keep the fondness from his voice.

Another glare. The three smarten up with barely restrained snickers.

Mr. Sims takes the paper bag and exchanges some low words with the other man, before Martin takes his leave with a quick peck to their teacher’s cheek. The crowd goes wild. Alex’s hoots and whistles only serve to darken his skin further. 

And then he continues on as if nothing happened, as if his apparent boyfriend hadn’t crashed the class and made said class exponentially more invested in the poor man’s personal life.

But Kit takes his writing from all around. And he notices more than people realise. 

Like how diluted Mr. Sims’ eyes are, how they occasionally flick between the class and the brown paper bag. Like how it looks like there’s practically nothing in said bag. At least, nothing heavy enough to pass as food.

Oh man. What had happened to him over the weekend for Martin to leave so frantically?

His teacher’s eating habits are scuffed. They’re so scuffed. What does this man even do on his lunch break?

So it’s with that in mind that he lingers outside the classroom instead of following his friends to the cafeteria. They shoot him concerned looks. He waves off their questioning and instead leans against the wall, and peaks through the little glass window inset into the door. 

Mr. Sims takes a few folded sheaves of paper out of the bag, gaze intense. 

That is. Not lunch.

Excuse me, Martin, what the fuck is this? 

There’s a tape recorder sitting, running, on his desk, as Mr. Sims sits down. It looks like one of Dian’s, besides a design of an eye on the lid where the tape goes. 

Mr. Sims looks up suddenly, exactly, and makes direct eye contact with Kit. Several emotions flash across his face, from alarmed to scared to  _ hungry _ . His eyes glint green.

A trick of the light?

Kit takes a step back, and then another, and then another, and then turns and flees. And he doesn’t stop until he reaches Ko and Dian and their frantic questions upon seeing the look on his face.

“Mate, you are pale as a  _ sheet _ , what the hell happened to you?”

“Was it a mug? Did one of my mugs get out?”

“No, no not a mug. No—” Kit takes a deep breath, his own eyes wide. “It wasn’t that. It was—”

Eyes. Green. Piercing.

Staring.

Watching.

_ Hungry _ .

That.

What?

  
“ _ What the hell was that? _ ” He breathes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is far more focused on the more spooky parts of Jon. its the /most/ spooky you will see him in this fic, tho not in this series  
> next chapter is the last! you wont be seeing ko's pov in this one, simply bc i have nothing to write for her that i haven't planned on addressing later on in the series (besides, she has her own spooky shenanigans to worry about)  
> hope you enjoyed! leave a comment, i love reading them :DDD

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think! i love reading comments
> 
> Subscribe to the series for more content :DDD


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